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The extra 100-200 won per phone might seem like pocket change, but stack it across thousands—millions—of units, and it's a fortune. Those small savings could cover workers' wages, bonuses, even benefits. And speaking of workers, Park Minho was knee-deep in plans to grow Hansung Technology into a juggernaut.
The factory's production department had ballooned from 500 to over 700 workers. Minho wasn't messing around with rookies fresh out of school. He needed seasoned hands, skilled workers with years under their belts. Stability trumped cheap labor costs, so he'd poached over 200 veterans from rival factories in under a month.
How? Hansung offered a 10% higher salary than competitors, plus perks that made jaws drop: free skills training, five social insurances, a housing fund, air-conditioned dorms, and three free meals a day. Skilled workers practically sprinted to join. Rival factory bosses were livid, cursing Hansung for upending the industry, but they were powerless to stop the exodus.
Most electronics factories dodged signing contracts to skirt insurance and social security costs, leaving workers unbound by penalties. Their only leverage was withholding a month's wages, but when workers were ready to jump ship, they'd just shrug and walk. Try stiffing them on pay? They'd report it to the labor board, and the factory would be slapped with fines or forced to cough up triple the owed wages. Plus, dodging contracts opened those factories to massive penalties. So, while competitors gnashed their teeth, their best talent flocked to Minho's factory.
Beyond the factory floor, Minho's sales force was another beast. From a modest 30 salespeople, Hansung now boasted over 230, thanks to the recent hiring spree. Unlike factory workers, salespeople's drive directly fueled sales, so Minho used a base salary plus commission model. The more they sold, the fatter their paychecks. On average, each salesperson was pulling in over 200,000 won a month—more than many factory workers earned sweating through 13-hour shifts.
It stung to pay salespeople so much, but Minho had no choice. Sales drove profits, and without juicy incentives, they'd slack off. Supervising them was a nightmare—how do you track effort in far-flung towns? So, he dangled big rewards to keep them hustling. The result? Monthly payroll for salespeople alone hit 46 million won. Add in 700 factory workers at 160,000 won each (112 million won), plus management salaries, and Minho's total wage bill was a staggering 158 million won a month.
Tack on extras—training programs led by industry experts, overtime snacks, water, electricity—and fixed monthly costs reached 180 million won. Yet Minho wasn't slowing down. He was recruiting like mad, aiming to boost the factory workforce to 1,000. With more hands, the grueling three-shift schedule, where workers averaged 13 hours a day, could ease to a standard eight-hour shift. Complaints were mounting, and Minho wanted to fix it.
He'd still allow voluntary overtime—capped at 12 hours—for those chasing extra cash, but he wanted options. Workers could stick to eight hours, then rest, study, or unwind. Minho backed their choices, knowing a happier workforce meant better output.
But hitting 1,000 workers wasn't a quick fix. He'd already scooped up the low-hanging talent; the remaining 300 would take time, likely until late May. And Minho wasn't stopping there. He'd signed a contract for parts to build 5 million phones—a massive gamble. The current factory, churning out 6,000 phones daily (180,000 monthly, 2.16 million yearly), couldn't handle that volume. Expansion was non-negotiable.
With 550 million won in the bank, Minho planned to scale up. First, he'd expand the factory. Then, he'd order new assembly lines. Even the cheapest equipment cost hundreds of millions, and to hit a target of 1 million phones a month (12 million annually), he'd need to spend 8-9 billion won on gear alone.
The number didn't scare him. He didn't have 8 billion won—or even 1 billion—in cash, but equipment purchases didn't demand full payment upfront. A deposit of 100 million won could secure delivery, with the rest due after installation and testing. That gave Minho a one- to two-month buffer to raise funds. He could also mortgage company assets to secure a bank loan, paying it off gradually.
Banks were tough to crack, but not impossible. With Hansung's explosive sales—70,000 phones in 10 days, 2.09 billion won in turnover, 280 million in profit—Minho had a strong case. He was confident he could sell 5 million phones in a year, especially with the Hansung 2 Labor Edition perfectly tuned to rural workers' needs. Saehan Mobile had sold 11.75 million phones last year, so 5 million was ambitious but doable.
The factory's edge came from the *Ultimate Imitation Emperor System*. Its production boost slashed losses, giving Minho a 100-200 won profit bump per phone. Normal factories bled money on damaged parts—dropped screens, fried circuits. Hansung's yield rate was freakishly high, saving millions. Every phone was a masterpiece, a quality level rivals could only dream of. If Minho opened a contract manufacturing arm, global brands like Nokia or Motorola would beg for his services.
But Minho's focus was Hansung's own brand. The system's edge let him outearn competitors while keeping prices low. At 29,900 won per phone, he was undercutting the market while pocketing 4,000 won profit per unit. That efficiency was his ace.
Still, the factory was stretched thin. Workers were burning out, and equipment was maxed out. Minho needed to act fast to sustain the momentum. He'd already ordered parts for 5 million phones, a high-stakes bet that demand would hold. So far, it was paying off—townsfolk were practically throwing money at his sales teams.
He glanced at the numbers again: 550 million won in cash, 180 million in monthly costs, and a 280 million profit in 10 days. The path was clear—expand the factory, buy new lines, hire more workers. It was a gamble, but Minho thrived on calculated risks. With the rural market eating up his phones and the system's edge in his pocket, he was ready to turn Hansung into a household name.
Across Gyeonggi Province, sales teams were still setting up tents, crushing phones under cars, and tossing them skyward to wow crowds. The Hansung 2 Labor Edition wasn't just a product—it was a movement. Migrant workers, farmers, and small-town folk saw it as their lifeline, a tough, cheap phone that could take a beating and keep ringing. Minho had tapped into a goldmine, and he wasn't about to let it slip.
Recruitment would continue, equipment orders would be placed, and loans would be secured. By year's end, Minho aimed to flood Korea with 5 million phones, cementing Hansung's place in a cutthroat market. The road ahead was daunting, but with 70,000 phones sold in 10 days, he knew he was onto something big.
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(end of this chapter)